Giving Thanks
by B.A. Tyler
Summary: As the gang sits down to a Thanksgiving meal, Col. Potter has a simple request.


**Giving Thanks**

Col. Sherman Potter stood up from the table, clanged his knife against his glass, and waited for silence. He added a steely glare for good measure, which meant he didn't have to wait very long. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Before we start stuffing our faces on this Thanksgiving Day, I thought it would be a nice idea if we took a little time to say what we're all thankful for. Don't give me that look, Klinger—we have plenty to be thankful for here. Things could be a lot worse. You're not fighting on the front lines, after all." To that point, Klinger gave a reluctant nod, and Potter continued, "I'm not going to force everyone to speak, but please, if you have something to share, by all means, feel free. Let's have a little holiday discourse before our main course."

A couple minutes of silence followed this request as folks looked down at the floor or drummed their fingers on the table. Finally a reedy voice piped up from the far end of the room. "I'm thankful that when I get back home, my fees are going to be double what they used to be!"

Potter, rolling his eyes, said, "Uh, thank you, Burns. I think." Under his breath, he added, "Weasel."

More hesitation, then like some kind of bespectacled jack-in-the-box, Radar popped up from his seat. "Uh, sir?" Potter smiled at the corporal in his grandfatherly way and gestured for him to go on. "I'm thankful that Cap'ns Pierce and Hunnicutt operated on my teddy bear after he got a little, uh, beat up in the laundry mishap."

"And the little guy's doing fine now, I hope?"

"Oh yessir. He's great, sir."

Potter's smile grew. "There you go. Excellent example of something to be thankful for. Anyone else?"

Margaret stood up then and, beaming, announced, "I'm grateful that my fiancé, Lt. Col. Donald Penobscot—"

"Of West Point," interjected Hawkeye.

Margaret ignored him. "I'm grateful that he's loving and sweet and that he takes such good care of me, and that he's so handsome and virile and—"

"OK, Major, we get the point," Potter said, holding up a hand. "Thanks for your, uh, input."

From the far corner came a very distinct, "Hmmph!" that sounded suspiciously Frank Burns-like.

In the ensuing uncomfortable silence, Father Mulcahy stood and intoned, "Yes. Well. Obviously, I often think about the things I'm thankful for, and I have to say, one of the biggest ones is the privilege and honor of working with all of you wonderful people here at the 4077th. Even though many of you choose to ignore my Sunday services, not to mention completely disregard the majority of the Ten Commandments, I still thank God for every one of you every day."

As Mulcahy sat back down, Potter swallowed around the lump in his throat and replied, "Thank you very much, Padre. That was awfully nice of you to say."

"The man's in the nice business," pointed out Hawkeye, who was sitting on Potter's right side.

On the other side of Hawkeye, B.J. raised his hand and said, "I'm thankful that we're having actual, real food today—turkey and stuffing and corn—although who knows what it's going to taste like once our cook gets done with it."

"Probably meatloaf and mush and unidentifiable creamed something." This again from Hawkeye.

"Pierce?" Potter prodded with more than a little exasperation. "Don't you have anything you're grateful for on this Thanksgiving?"

"Well yes, now that you ask, Colonel, I do. I'm thankful that Frank left his diary where B.J. and I could find it, and I'm thankful that we were able to find a few select pages to rip out and send to his patients back home… oh, and I'm _also_ thankful that he left his address book out in the open, and I'm thankful for the section in that aforementioned address book that was plainly labeled 'Patients.'" Hawkeye folded his hands on the table in front of him, an utterly self-satisfied expression on his face and a wicked twinkle in his eye. Next to him, B.J. was struggling mightily to keep a straight face.

"You did _what_?" came the predictable cry from the corner, and suddenly the mess tent descended into raucous laughter.

In the midst of the mayhem, Potter gave a defeated sigh and a shrug. As he sat back down at the table, he murmured to himself, "And I'm thankful that retirement arrives in exactly 14 months, 1 week, and 3 days."


End file.
